


Frantic

by AvoidingAverage



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier Loves HIS Witcher, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Kidnapping, Little bit of Fluff, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Geralt, Torture, Whump, im weak, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22658740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: Geralt was hanging limply against the rough bark. Two daggers kept him pinioned like a bug in place and left dark streaks of drying blood down his arms and exposed chest. Silver hair was matted close to his forehead from a sluggishly bleeding would that left golden eyes hazy and unfocused. Worst still were the bruises littering every inch of exposed skin like a collage of torment.His Witcher had been tortured.———There was a name for the emotion burning like fire in his blood, eating away at the dandelion bard that had made his living seeking the pleasure of others. A simple phrase that barely encompasses the new tension in his bones and made his mind focus with singular, violent intent.Wrath._________________________Geralt leaves Jaskier to go on a hunt that quickly goes wrong.  Jaskier decides to take matters into his own hands.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 81
Kudos: 2777
Collections: Fan Fiction Addiction





	Frantic

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a prompt about Jaskier being left behind by Geralt while he goes on a hunt and not returning in time on tumblr and just couldn't resist. 
> 
> Enjoy some serious Geralt whump with a badass Jaskier coming to the rescue.

There are 523 boards that make up the floor of this frankly disgusting room

523 floorboards and one tiny window to try to bring in enough light to the room that an optimistic inhabitant might call it cheerful. 

Jaskier hated it. 

He’s had plenty of time to develop his hatred of this room. Three days and a handful of hours if he wanted to be specific. More than enough time to write three scathing ballads addressing certain Witcher’s and their proclivities toward working alone, a few sonnets addressing the frankly ridiculous amount of patience Jaskier possessed, and a very melodramatic ode that had been immediately tossed into the fire. 

It hadn’t helped that he couldn’t seem to sleep with every moment that passed without the familiar silver haired figure making his way into view. 

_ It’s just three days, bard. There’s no reason for you to come when there’s a decent gig here for you.  _

Jaskier mouthed the words with a mocking expression under his breath. 

It  _ had  _ been a nice gig—until Jaskier's worry for Geralt had translated into an excessive number of emotional and dramatic renditions of his usual jaunty ballads. He couldn’t be blamed for the fact that these peasants hadn’t understood the difficulties of being in love with a man who both didn’t recognize your emotions or the dangers that came with his line of work. 

He’d just give Jaskier one of those impassive stares that seemed to mean ‘of course it’s dangerous. I’m a Witcher. The only thing I’m afraid of is my own emotions.’

Or something like that. Jaskier tended to fill in the blanks himself. 

Outside his door he could hear Lina, the maid, making her afternoon rounds through the rooms to kick out hungover patrons and their lusty partners. The sound helped cement the decision that had been growing in his mind almost as soon as Geralt had walked out the door. 

It went something like: Fuck this, I’m getting my Witcher. 

The immediate problem was that Jaskier wasn’t exactly sure how to go about finding the Witcher. He knew the man had been sent out to hunt a griffin that had been killing off the skinny herd of sheep that helped inspire the rather inglorious name of the town—Sheep’s Spit. 

So the plan so far was all about finding the lamb loving griffin in order to also recover his scowling sidekick. 

Simple. 

And despite what Geralt and his critics thought, Jaskier was clever and cunning when he chose to. In this case, he hunted to find the most downtrodden looking farmer who looked as miserable as Jaskier about the missing Witcher. Within a few moments, he had a direction and a rough set of instructions on how to get to where they believed the griffin’s nest could be. He was practically a Witcher already. 

Jaskier spent the hike composing a ballad of his own—no longer the humble bard but the dashing hero. It was better than thinking about the worry cursing in his gut like a living thing. Or the quiet voice in his mind whispering that Geralt had just abandoned him. He couldn’t even pretend it was the first time. 

But things were better now. The Witcher had apologized for the worst of his words and Jaskier had accepted it. Geralt cared about him—or at least Jaskier thought he did. 

The bard was lovesick enough to accept what he could have. 

It wasn’t long before the carefully cultivated meadows gave way to the darker, more visceral edge of the wild wood. The birds were quieter here, cautious in a way that the bard replicated as he picked his way along a narrow game path. His eyes scanned the treetops carefully and he wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or terrified when he saw the broken branches and leaves left behind by a massive wingspan. 

Jaskier took a moment to be grateful he left his lute back at the inn in favor of his knife—or ‘knitting needle’ as Geralt liked to call it. Even if the Witcher looked down on the thin blade, it had gotten him out of quite a few tough scrapes and he trusted it to get the job done. Although he had no intention of testing it on the likes of a griffin. That kind of insanity belonged to Geralt and his ilk. 

A few yards ahead, he made out more broken branches and destruction. He followed the trail up the side of the craggy mountain foothill with care. At each outcrop, he used the added height to scan for any sign of bright silver hair or Roach’s bronze coat. It was getting harder and harder to ignore the feeling in his gut that something was wrong. 

Finding the nest was almost alarming in its simplicity. 

Jaskier simply walked forward, distracted by a grey patch of moss that was  _ almost  _ silver, and tripped over the edge of the pile of sticks and fell face first into it. 

It wasn’t his best moment in his solo monster hunting career. 

Aside from a (quiet) shriek, he managed to get back to his feet relatively quickly and began to search the nest for any more clues. Bones gleamed in dull censure from the creature’s most recent kills. Obviously the griffin wasn’t here of the bard would be long dead which meant he’d need some way to track the flying creature. There was only a few more hours before sundown and he needed to find Geralt before he was left stumbling through the dark. He turned in a slow circle and took a breath when the breeze shifted to ruffle through his hair. 

The smell of rot is horrifyingly familiar now. 

Jaskier’s mind went numb. All thought disappeared under a babbling monologue of  _ pleasebokaypleasebeokaypleasegodsdontletitbegeralthehastolive.  _

With more speed than grace, the bard leapt over the outer edge of the nest and followed the trail down the other side of the mountains. He didn’t have the sharp senses of his Witcher, but even a human nose was enough to track down a giant rotting corpse. Jaskier half-tripped half-ran down another outcropping before sliding to a halt beside the massive carcass of what could only be the griffin. 

Years of traveling with Geralt meant he’d become painfully acquainted with the nastier aspects of the Witcher’s job which was why instead of vomiting, Jaskier took a shallow breath and looked the beast over. 

Almost immediately any hope that Geralt had killed the beast and went on his way vanished. While Geralt didn’t have much mercy in him for violent beasts, he would  _ never _ have allowed himself to be as sloppy as these hacking, clumsy strikes. Jaskier’s hunch was confirmed when a closer inspection revealed multiple arrows from a crossbow and a recurved bow marring the griffin’s side. He’d helped Geralt pack his quiver before the trip and knew these weren’t his arrows. 

He frowned when he also began to realize that the griffin had not been killed within the last few days. Bugs and carrion had already ripped into the softer tissues and he could smell the sickly scent of maggots in the air. If he had to guess, he’d say whoever had off the poor creature’s head had done so at least a day before Geralt had arrived to the town. 

Which begged the question—where was the Witcher?

That too was a question Jaskier could answer on his own given time. Despite his gruff exterior, the Witcher had a strict moral code about the creatures he hunted. He never let them suffer needlessly nor would he allow anyone who did to outlive their victim. Geralt must have decided to hunt the griffin’s assailants himself. It was a kinder explanation for why he hadn’t returned to town.

Now he just had to trail the Witcher. Easy. 

Sighing, Jaskier spun on his heel in a last sweep of the clearing before tossing his hands in the air and choosing a direction opposite the way back to town. Maybe he could find some clue if he just kept moving. 

* * *

Thankfully, Destiny seemed to agree with Jaskier’s dedication to haunting Geralt’s shadow. 

He walked for almost an hour before he heard the voices. It was surprisingly enough to come across more humans this far away from civilization that he instantly became wary. His footsteps slowed to become quiet enough that anyone without a Witcher’s senses wouldn’t hear him. It made it harder to get closer, but he decided it was worth the time lost when he became close enough to make out what they were saying. 

As a bard—one that traveled alone on occasion—Jaskier had developed a talent for judging personalities and moods of people in groups. A changing tone or gesture could be all the warning he had before a night of revelry turned into a free for all. 

All that experience was meaningless once he was close enough to hear the venom masquerading as words. 

“—try again, Stavos. Looks like he’s starting to perk up again.”

The sound of a fist striking flesh and a low, pained snarl sounded over the crackling fire. 

Jaskier was moving closer before the thought registered. His knife was a comforting weight in his hand and the shadows a comforting presence around him even if the rage was flickering to life in his veins. He knew what the sound of torment was, even if the sharp  _ scree _ from an avian throat was a confusing addition. 

The bard moved around a large oak big enough to give him enough shelter to hide behind and got his first look at the campsite. 

A large fire crackled merrily at the center of it, throwing light and shadows in a complicated dance through the trees. Farther out, a few bored looking horses were tied down for the night, grazing idly. Three—no, four—humans were scattered around the camp. Two were assembling what looked to be their meal for the night while a third struggled with a dog sized creature pinned with chains to another tree. 

The creature’s existence there answered Jaskier’s question about why Geralt would have continued despite the dead griffin on the hilltop—monster hunters. A group that catered to the rich and bored who sought out creatures for their collections and amusement. The poor little beast was clearly an adolescent version of the carcass left behind. It shrieked pathetically even with the muzzle on its mouth and it’s wings pinned to its side. The human nearest to it shoved it roughly back into the dirt and let it collapse there in a heap. 

Jaskier felt a burst of anger on the creature’s behalf, but it was nothing compared to what went through him when he looked toward the last of the hunters. The man was busy pulling free a knife that had sunk into the thick wood of a massive yew tree. It barely registered against the horror and outrage that came with the sight of the second captive. 

Geralt was hanging limply against the rough bark. Two daggers kept him pinioned like a bug in place and left dark streaks of drying blood down his arms and exposed chest. Silver hair was matted close to his forehead from a sluggishly bleeding would that left golden eyes hazy and unfocused. Worst still were the bruises littering every inch of exposed skin like a collage of torment. 

His Witcher had been tortured. 

* * *

There was a name for the emotion burning like fire in his blood, eating away at the dandelion bard that had made his living seeking the pleasure of others. A simple phrase that barely encompasses the new tension in his bones and made his mind focus with singular, violent intent. 

Wrath. 

* * *

It took every drop of patience and cunning not to rush into the clearing and gut every last one of them. 

Despite outward appearances and a carefully crafted stage presence as a vapid, joyous creature, Jaskier had not survived as long and as much as he had without being able to fight. Better still was his ability to plot revenge in ways others never expected. He knew that if he let the rage in his bones fester into action he would be killed before he saw justice. 

So he settled in to the shadow of the trees and waited, his knife the only thing anchoring him to this earth. He counted each bruise and new injury on Geralt’s body and waited for night to fall and the fools who’d harmed his Witcher to fall asleep. The only kindness in this nightmare was that the humans had apparently grown bored with hurting the limp body against the tree and seemed to be settling down for the night.

His patience was rewarded within an hour or so. 

The hunter who’d drawn for first watch stomped off into the trees while the other three pulled out their bedrolls and happily fell asleep. Jaskier waited until he was sure they were comfortably unconscious before slinking over to the man on watch. 

He was several inches taller than Jaskier and outweighed him by several pounds, but the bard had no intention of allowing him to use that advantage. Instead, he crept closer, letting the warmth of the fire and quiet night lull the man into a sense of security. 

When he lunged for the guard, it was almost too easy to slide the thin loop of metal from the inseam of his boot around his neck. The garrote sank deep into his flesh and choked off the cry of surprise and pain the move elicited. Jaskier bared his teeth as he rode out the man’s struggles and let his brown eyes fix on his until he saw the life fade away from them. The bard waited until the body had been still for several minutes before uncoiling his weapon and kicking the corpse away. 

One down. 

The other three would be more problematic. If they managed to make a sound and alerted the others before he was ready, they could overwhelm him with numbers. Surprise was the only element he could use to his advantage. With this in mind, he crept over to where he could see a familiar brown mare standing with the herd of horses. Roach startled at the sight of him, but settled restlessly when he ran a hand over her flank and reached for the pack still tied to her saddle. 

It looked like they’d used Geralt’s weapons to pin him down—the thought made Jaskier’s lips curl in a silent snarl—but hadn’t begun to rifle through the potions and bottles in the other pack. He moved through them as quietly as possible, grateful for the snap and pop of the dying fire, until he found a circular container. It was a dusky grey and he knew from experience that it would come in handy once he started his attack. 

Pocketing it, he threw a worried glance to Geralt’s too still body before taking a deep breath and focusing on the humans. 

This was the part of his plan that was the riskiest and would definitely have earned one of the Witcher’s extra annoyed grunts when he heard of it. ( _ If _ he heard of it and gods help him if Jaskier was already too late.) It relied on an element that couldn’t be guaranteed to be friends despite their common enemy.

The griffin watched his approach with dull eyes, wings shifting restlessly beneath his bonds. Jaskier tried to hum a soothing note, but he couldn’t risk speaking above a whisper as he came closer.

“Easy there, beauty,” he breathed and tried not to flinch when the creature’s head reared up to focus directly on him. “I’m going to get you out of these chains, yeah? And then I need you to agree not to maim me once you’re free.”

The griffin didn’t blink.

Behind them, one of the hunters murmured in their sleep and both the bard and the griffin froze until silence fell once more. 

Jaskier let out a low breath before slowly reaching for the latched chain closest to him. They needed to move quickly if this was going to work. There was no time to wonder if this decision was going to end with him facing two groups of enemies instead of just the hunter. His eyes darted to where the Witcher was mumbling and twitching against the daggers pinning him in place and felt his resolvve harden. 

Geralt needed him and Jaskier refused to repay his loyalty with failure.

The first chain released with a faint clink, but when he reached for the next, the griffin was beginning to be agitated. It shifted its trapped wings restlessly, its beak clicking beneath the muzzle. He tried to hush it, but he could sense his window of opportunity was beginning to close. 

One of the hunters made a sleepy, questioning sound and Jaskier threw caution to the wind and released the muzzle and chains in a quick jerk.

Immediately, the griffin leapt free of their weight and spread its wings with a joyous shriek. It brought the hunters stumbling out of their bedrolls with calls of alarm and panic. Jaskier darted to the side to avoid getting brained with a wing. Thankfully the creature didn’t seem to notice him amidst the chaos of the campsite.

“What the hell?” one of them called, “Get the griffin!”

Jaskier didn’t give the man a chance to get his weapon before he was on him.

They slammed into the ground in a heap and Jaskier rolled to avoid a wild haymaker aimed at his jaw. The other man was bigger than him and knew enough to use it to his advantage, but Jaskier was still riding the wave of rage that had been burning since he saw Geralt hanging there. He threw his head forward in a headbutt that left him seeing stars and the man’s hold on him loosening. It gave him enough leverage to bring his knife up and cut a deep groove into the meat of his opponent’s thigh.

The man released a scream of rage and pain and shoved Jaskier hard enough that he went rolling. His back thudded against the tree and he blinked open his eyes in time to meet glassy, pain-filled yellow eyes above him. 

Geralt frowned, blinking slowly, and swallowing hard. “Jas?”

It was barely more than a whisper, but Jaskier felt his body thrum like a lute string plucked by a master’s hand. He could feel his resolve hardening beneath the startled incredulity in the Witcher’s. Silly man was still surprised each time Jaskier chose to risk everything for him.

Jaskier opened his mouth to say so, but was distracted by a flicker of movement that triggered an instinctive roll to his left. 

It was all that saved him from the hunting knife that sank deep into the earth. Instead of retreating forward, the bard rolled his body backwards and slammed both feet into the hunter’s unprotected knees. The man tumbled with a grunt and Jaskier followed him down.

This time his knife didn’t miss.

Bloodied and panting, Jaskier gave the body one last kick before turning to survey the rest of the hunters. The griffin had gone for the man closest to it and was ripping into his corpse with more excitement than skill. A few feet away, the remaining hunter raised her crossbow to take aim while the creature was distracted.

Jaskier rushed forward, grabbing a long piece of firewood from the pile next to the fire and swung it like a bat. She had enough time to turn toward him with a look of surprise before the branch connected with her jaw with a sick crunch. The hunter collapsed in a heap and remained still. For a moment, the bard and the griffin stared at her body before the griffin leapt on her with a grating cry. She didn’t get up again.

He didn’t bother to watch the gory revenge. Instead, he spun on one heel and raced back to where Geralt was pinned to that horrible tree. 

His fingers shook with a mixture of adrenaline and nerves when he reached out to trace his fingers over Geralt’s bloodied face. The Witcher’s eyes opened, dull and catlike, to stare at him like he’d never seen the man before. Jaskier tried and failed to resist the urge to tuck a strand of pale hair behind an ear. Geralt shuddered like the tender gesture hurt him and pressed his cheek into Jaskier’s palm. 

Then he frowned, rearing back to glare at him. “Jaskier, you can’t--you shouldn’t be here.”

“Where else would I be?” Jaskier asked absently as he began to look over the daggers that trapped Geralt in place. “Hold on, this will probably hurt.”

The Witcher opened his mouth to respond, but cut off with a drown out groan of pain when Jaskier used both hands to pull the dagger out of his left forearm. Immediately he sagged on nerveless legs against the bard, who stumbled then braced himself against the weight. He crooned a stream of useless nonsense as he tried to mentally and physically prepare himself for yanking the next knife free.

“I’ve got you, Witcher. I promise. Never gonna let you out of my sight again. You and me, we work together. That means you don’t go disappearing and getting hurt again. Ever. I mean it, Geralt, I can’t stand this. You have to be okay. You have to outlive me--”

“Don’t want to,” Geralt interrupted.

Jaskier paused with his fingers still around the bloody hilt. “What?”

“Don’t want to live without you.”

The air seemed to rush out of his lungs and left Jaskier gaping at the Witcher’s somber expression. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly as he tried to comprehend what Geralt had just said. Blood loss, he thought firmly, the blood loss must be more serious than he thought. The poor man probably didn’t know what he was saying--no matter how much the thought made Jaskier’s heart pound.

“Alright, tough guy. On three, okay?” Jaskier met Geralt’s eyes firmly and waited for him to nod before counting down, “One, two--THREE!”

Jaskier’s heave of effort was rewarded with another hiss of pain and the full weight of the Witcher crumpling against him. He grunted with effort, but managed to keep his feet and half stumbled half dragged Geralt away from the tree. Blood was drying tacky and damp on his clothes and he mentally tallied up the expenses for replacing the silken tunic. Geralt’s head curled into the joint of his shoulder and neck and he could feel the Witcher’s ragged breathing against his overly hot skin.

He turned and found himself nearly face to face with the young griffin. Blood and gristle dripped from its maw as it slowly cocked its head to the side to watch the bard with predatory assessment.

Tired, bruised, and frankly stinking to high heaven, Jaskier gave him a gimlet stare. “Don’t even think about it, bird brain. I will gut you.”

The griffin watched him for a minute more before giving a dignified sniff and returning to the corpses of the fallen hunters. 

Jaskier supposed that was as close to a thank you as he would get.

Whistling for Roach in a poor imitation of Geralt’s shrill style, he made a desperately grateful sound when the mare chose to allow it and moved closer. Geralt was practically a deep weight and Jaskier was shaking with fatigue by the time he got the Witcher into the saddle. It was obvious that he wouldn’t be able to ride alone so Jaskier hauled himself up behind the listing warrior. He snatched the reins of a sturdy looking grey gelding and left the other horses to wander toward greener pastures. It might be useful to have another horse to ride if Geralt was too injured to walk.

The thought that the Witcher might not recover was one he refused to let fester.

He let Roach pick her way through the woods back to the town they’d left behind. Her ability to find a warm, dry stable had always been something he’d admired. It also left him free to focus on keeping Geralt upright and trying to staunch the bleeding from the worst of his injuries. The Witcher’s head lulled back against Jaskier’s shoulder and he murmured softly to himself.

“...should have killed him…”

“Who?” Jaskier asked, trying to keep the other man awake, “If it was the bastard who pinned you to the tree, I fully agree.”

The Witcher groaned softly and went silent long enough for Jaskier to jostle him back awake.

“Geralt?  _ Geralt _ . Come on, don’t fall asleep on me now. I need to hear the extensive lecture you’ve probably been planning out ever since you saw me back there.” He couldn’t seem to help the way his hands tightened around Geralt’s chest or the slight tremor in his voice. 

“Hmm.”

“Well you must be feeling better if you’re back to your usual talkative ways.”

On and on it went as they walked through the shadows of the trees. Jaskier rambled, cajoled, and even sang as many bawdy lyrics as he could to try to keep Geralt from slipping back into unconsciousness. He had enough experience with wound care now that he knew the risks of allowing such a thing after losing so much blood.

For once, he even wished Yennefer was around to portal the man to a healer--but, of course, the mage was only useful for driving Jaskier insane and dragging Geralt into her bed.

Dawn was just cresting over the horizon by the time Roach broke through the last line of trees and began to trot in the direction of the inn. Jaskier gave a rough sob of relief at the sight of it and reached down to pat her sweaty flank in gratitude. Geralt’s eyes were closed and face slack, but Jaskier could still feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against his. It would have to be enough.

The stableboy came out to greet them with wide eyes and took Roach’s reins while Jaskier slid off her back. His legs shook with the strain of keeping Geralt in the saddle for so long and the exhaustion from the fight, but he refused to acknowledge it. 

Geralt needed him. That was all that mattered now.

“Wipe her down well,” Jaskier told the boy, “she’s worked hard.” He fished out a coin from his purse without bothering to see how much it was worth. “I’ll double your tip if you fetch a healer straight away for my Witcher friend.”

The boy snatched the coin out of his fingers and nodded fervently, scurrying away towards the center of town.

Roach and the gelding watched him with the kind of judgement only horses seemed to muster as he pulled Geralt free from the saddle and practically collapsed under the weight of muscle. He huffed out a breath and narrowed his eyes at Roach, who promptly flicked him with her tail.

“I don’t know how you manage to haul him around all day,” he grunted and started for the door.

Thankfully, the innkeeper seemed to sense an opportunity for more coin if the Witcher was laid up in one of his rooms healing and came forward to help Jaskier get him up the stairs. Geralt growled softly when he caught the other man’s scent, but Jaskier shushed him softly. Even so, he kept his hand close to his knife in case the innkeeper or one of his guests attempted to take advantage of the situation. 

He ordered a bath for them both as soon as they were inside the horrible room Jaskier had spent three days fretting in and settled Geralt onto the bed. Already, the presence of the Witcher in the tiny room settled something deep in Jaskier’s chest. The exhaustion of the last few days bit and dragged at each movement, but he ignored it in favor of beginning to strip Geralt out of his armor.

Geralt needed him. He could sleep later.

Beneath the stained armor, more bruises littered the Witcher’s chest and drew a soft snarl from Jaskier’s lips. He mapped out the damage with his fingertips, dedicating it to memory and a dark desire to go back and gut the hunters a second time. Thankfully, it appeared the worst of the damage was the knife wounds to his forearms. Jaskier could only pray it wouldn’t keep the Witcher from being able to wield his weapons.

A knock at the door revealed a wrinkled old woman who took one look at Jaskier’s wild eyed and bloody appearance and got to work.

“Any of that yours?” she asked, indicating the dark stains all over his clothes.

Jaskier glanced down at himself, already shaking his head. “Ah, no. No, just worry about him.”

She grunted and settled down her bag beside the bed and began her task of piecing together the damage. The bard hovered nearby as she washed, stitched and bandaged the worst of the wounds, humming in satisfaction at what she saw.

“No major damage--he’ll be back to fighting form in a few days. Your Witcher is a tough one.”

“He’s um, he’s not mine actually--” And damn if that still didn’t hurt like a punch to the gut, “--but I thank you for your care.”

Nodding decisively, the woman gathered her things and waited for Jaskier to fish out money to pay her before hustling out the door. 

Jaskier settled down beside the bed with a low sigh of exhaustion and relief. Slowly, he let his head rest on his forearms on the mattress beside Geralt’s hip and took a shuddering breath. His eyes burned with a mixture of stress and fatigue, but he refused to acknowledge it. All his mind seemed capable of producing was an endless cycle of images of what could have happened if he hadn’t arrived in time. His shoulders shook with restrained sobs and he bit down hard on one knuckle. 

It was always supposed to be him that went first. 

Geralt was supposed to go on as he always did--though Jaskier would be grateful if the Witcher at least grieved for him. In his most imaginative fantasies, he pictured the Witcher adding a dandelion charm to his medallion to honor his loyal traveling companion. Their parting was inevitable. Jaskier was human and prone to danger even without traipsing around the wilderness at Geralt’s side. 

Never had he ever considered the possibility that it might be  _ Jaskier _ standing alone over a simple grave and grieving his companion.

His heart gave a dull throb of pain and he sniffed as quietly as he could. 

“I’m weak, my love, and wanting,” he whispered.

The sensation of a hand running through his dirty hair made him jerk upright and gape at bright eyes watching him from a few inches away. Geralt watched him thoughtfully, letting his thumb drop to trace the edge of Jaskier’s lip like he could chase the song there.

“What do you want?” the Witcher asked softly.

The question hung in the air between them like starlight. Endless light lingering just out of reach. 

Jaskier felt the world go still around them, narrowing to the soft flush on Geralt’s cheeks and the sensation of his skin on him. The emotions in his chest were raw and aching in a way he usually was able to ignore. 

But he couldn’t ignore this.

He swallowed, licked his lips, and watched yellow eyes drop to follow the movement.

“You.” Always you.

Geralt’s eyes met his and his lips curled in a slow smile that made heat pool in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach. He leaned forward until the only thing between them was breath.

“Then have me.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So I started this story with the intent of expanding on my love for feral Jaskier and somehow it became really soft? at the end? What is this unexpected fluff? 
> 
> Anywho, I hope you enjoyed this quick one-shot. If you'd like to see more of feral Jaskier and protective Geralt, hit me up in the comments!


End file.
